Associations are a funny thing. I feel the warmth of your skin when I taste foamy chocolate. I see your long legs when I curl up on a Starbucks couch. I hear your sleep-sounds in a solitary evening walk home; when the air is dusky and dim and asking for you.
The longing for you is stronger than the longing for a puff&drag of a cigarette. It is easy to quit. My mind is more occupied with composing words to you in my head.
I feel sad now that April has rolled around. I can’t help but think of an April, threesixtyfive days ago. An April that was whiled away by the riverside. We sat in the smooth London sunshine. My tongue occasionally tasting Stella Artois on your tongue. Your nose inhaling the fumes of Gauloises Lights wafting through my unruly curls. We redefined spring, the way all lovers do.
Sometimes, I think of our little elephant windchime. The one you always swore would be stolen. The one I always swore belonged outdoors. I think of our possessions, our secrets, our separate lives that we adjusted around each other. How we admired the landscape of your guitar and my books against the canvas of Pink Floyd and Audrey Hepburn. How things became ours, not yours or mine. Even the smell of “our” hair because we shared the same citrusy shampoo.
Last night, after reading and pink-cheeking your last mail, I stumbled upon an old Chinese idiom: one day, three autumns. Meaning that when you miss somebody, twenty four hours can feel like a thousand and ninety five days.
I miss your big feet, the bristle of your beard, the streaks of light in your eyes. You.
Let’s meet on the 567th day?
– Your fool.
P.S The little chiming elephant never was stolen.